


Love, It's Summer

by jenny_of_oldstones



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Black Emporium, Flirting, M/M, Mild Trespasser Spoilers/Foreshadowing, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan makes a strange purchase at the Black Emporium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, It's Summer

“The pickled apples of _what_?” Trevelyan laughed. “Congratulations, I just found my skepticism.” 

Xenon the Antiquarian made a disgusted noise. Fair enough. Trevelyan had five minutes ago picked up a screaming box, knocked over an invisible statue of Andraste, and tweaked his eyebrows _just so_ by standing in front of a terrifying mirror. All at the invitation of a mummified corpse whose shop was located somewhere under Kirkwall.

“Urchin!” Xenon coughed. “Fetch…the  _hgnnnn_ , apples.”

The shop attendant disappeared down a staircase into the bowels of the shop. A minute later he returned, cradling a jar of pickled apples. He set it down gently on the shop counter and peeled back the wax seal. The green apple he lifted dripping from the jar glistened, as bright as if it been picked that morning. 

The Veil trembled around it.

That was....unusual. It wasn't every day one came across fruit infused with magical energy, even in a place like the Black Emporium.

But an actual, authentic apple from the lost empire of Arlathan?

Magic did queer things to time. There was no shortage of academic reports of scholars stumbling across ruins centuries old, only to find cloth and books untouched as if not even a day had passed. It happened where the Veil was thin, in places of tragedy, where the raw amber of the Fade oozed out to preserve a single moment.  

But _Arlathan?_ The theoretical _maybes_  needed to save a relic from that far back.... 

Yes, despite otherwise batshit circumstances of his life, Trevelyan was definitely still a skeptic.

“I’m not going to wake up in one of your display cases, am I?” he asked, taking an offered apple slice from the urchin's knife. "On second thought, keep me in suspense on that one."

He shrugged and bit into it—

_—summer—_

_—at last—_

_—shutters open—wind lifts my hair—you lean out the window and pluck an apple—_

_—press it into my hand—lips part—teeth—crisp—bite of winter—_

_—ask for a taste—I laugh—you chase—down the library steps—_ _come back, come back!_

_sky a strange color_

_the librarians gather at the windows, murmuring_

_—you catch my wrist—lips parting—lips meeting—bitter spit—sweet tongue—juice between our fingers—_

_—vhenan—_

_the floor shakes_

_books fly off the shelves_

_something wrong_

_—vhenan—_

_—I never—_

_the ceiling cracks_

_screaming_

_—you run, afraid—lost in the pushing crowd—my arms outstretch—_

_—_ _come back!—_

_then the floor opens_

_you fall_

_the world ends_

_—come back—_

_—come back—_

Trevelyan let out a sobbing gasp on the floor.

Xenon chuckled. “Quite the kick, eh?” All humor drained from his voice. “Five sovereigns.”

Trevelyan could not stop shaking as he turned out his purse. His mind felt giddy, sick, as if a ghost had dragged a finger through it. “I….I’ll pay for more.”

“One sample per customer!” Xenon snapped. The urchin began to replace the wax cover.

“Wait! Wait, I….” Trevelyan wiped the tears from his eyes, awash inside with scents and energies of a people long dead, of actual ancient  _history_ —

Solas.

The elf's face swam into his head of its own volition. Trevelyan wasn’t sure why he thought of him. Only that this was something Solas deserved to experience. His friend who loved the past, who spoke with such aching reverence for the ancient elves and lost Arlathan….he should have this.

“How much do you want for one apple?” asked Trevelyan.

“They are not. For sale.” There was an edge to the Antiquarian’s voice that he didn’t like. “Unless….”

The urchin nodded. He unlocked a chest beneath the counter and lay a contract on the table before him. With a thrill of dread, Trevelyan saw it already had his name at the top, as well as the striding green horse of House Trevelyan.

“I would be willing to part with _one_ apple,” intoned Xenon, “if you are willing to part with your marvelous hand.”

“My….come again?” Trevelyan clutched the Anchor to his chest.

“After your death of course. _Aheh_.”

Trevelyan read the contract. Then read it again. It was simple enough, too innocent for what it was asking, but there were no loopholes he could detect. It wasn’t as if he’d be around to care what became of the Anchor after he died. Better it should rot away in some hobbyist’s evil cellar, rather than hacked off and sold off to the highest bidder in Maker-Knows-Where Tevinter.

Sod it.

Still shaking, he took the quill from the urchin and signed his name at the bottom.

“Excellent!” Xenon cackled. “Urchin, see that our guest’s hrmmmm..... _gift_ is wrapped appropriately.”

~

“I have something for you.”

Solas lifted his head from the tome he was pouring over. It was late, and there was no one else in the rotunda save the crows asleep in their cages. “Back so soon?”

“It was….an interesting trip,” said Trevelyan. 

To put it mildly. He and his entourage had spent the last two weeks on horseback—their long ride back from the Storm Coast punctuated interminably by halts to seal rifts and battle red templar cells. That was to say nothing of the terrible trip across the Waking Sea from Kirkwall. Every joint and muscle ached, his nose was stuffy, and his cloak reeked of mildew. The whole journey from the Black Emporium the apple called to him from the bottom of his pack with its sad, joyous song, as tempting as a desire demon. And just as he did every day with demons, Trevelyan somehow resisted its call—

The thought of Solas’ rare smile staying his hand each time.

He set his pack down on the table and opened it. Inside was a small jar with a single green pickled apple, marred only by a missing sliver.

“Ah yes, item four on the list of Inquisition priorities," said Solas, shutting his book. "Forces, alliances, secrets, and apples.”

Trevelyan laughed, a coil of warmth curling pleasantly inside his chest. It was easy to miss the elf’s humor sometimes, shellacked as it often was in sarcasm.

“I bought it from the Black Emporium,” said Trevelyan. “It came at a steep price.”

“I imagine most things in a hidden sanctorium of arcane wonders would,” said Solas, studying the apple now with more interest. “And what, pray tell, makes it so valuable?”

“Believe it or not, Fade memory. Old Fade memory.”

Solas’ eyebrows raised. That got his attention. “You sampled firsthand?”

“Drove the breath out of me.”

“ _Fascinating_.” Solas turned the jar under his hand, leveling his gaze with it on the table. “It is not uncommon for memory to be imbued in objects, but perishable food?”

Trevelyan resisted a smile. Solas’ thirst for knowledge was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. It made him want to know everything, _learn_ everything, and after a lifetime of being discouraged from asking too many questions, it was a balm his spirit never knew it needed.

It was easy to be drawn to him.

“The magic that touched this apple was very pure,” said Solas, straightening. “What was it like?”

“Intense. _Very_ intense. There were these two lovers in a library, and then something happened. A disaster, I don't know. It sort of hit me like a charging bronto."

"Memories of happiness are far more fleeting than those of war and strife," said Solas. "The unique circumstances of the moment might have helped preserve it. Otherwise, this apple would have had to have grown in an environment where the Veil was thin, perhaps even torn. If the experience was as intense as you purport." 

"Or a time and place where magic was stronger," said Trevelyan, his lips twitching.

"Come again?"

“Why..." Trevelyan gave a dramatic flair. "Because it’s the fabulous pickled apple of Arlathan!" 

Something dark flickered across Solas’ features. A guttering of the candle, and it was gone.

He pushed the jar away. 

"Quite an academic finding, if true," said Solas. "A preserved memory from a time without record? Your scholars will be butchering each other for a taste."

"Oh, believe me, they won't get the chance." 

"Ah, you intend to keep it for yourself then. I wonder if the indigestion won't make you regret swallowing all that history in one sitting." 

Trevelyan felt the mood in the room pivot. The venom in the elf’s voice threw him. _“I'm_ not going to eat it. I bought it for you. For you to try.”

Solas stared at him.

“I mean, I didn't believe it at first either when they told me,” said Trevelyan quickly, backtracking. “But the memory locked inside it is ancient elvhen. I thought you might be curious—”

“You were mistaken.” Solas turned quickly enough that his chair scraped back. “Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

His feet made no noise as he left the rotunda, leaving Trevelyan alone with the crows.

~

The next morning he woke even more aching and stuffy-headed, if such a thing were possible.

Still, the sheets of his bed were warm, and he burrowed deeper, enjoying their embrace after weeks at sea and on the road—

And was promptly greeted with the blurry sight of the apple in its jar where he’d left it on the couch.

Trevelyan groaned into his hands. How could he be so stupid? An apple containing memories of a lost civilization! The remnants of a forgotten people! Why wouldn’t Solas want to sink his teeth into that?

Who wouldn’t want a taste of dead and butchered ancestors?

Maker. He propped himself up, sheets pooling around his hips. It had been such a game to him. What was the elvish slur— _shemlen?_ If he was anything to Solas now, it was that. A thuggish, conquering human, looting and delighting in the collection of dead elvhen memory. What a thick boy he was. What a _child_.

He drew his knees up and buried his throbbing head against them. And worse, it had been Solas, _Solas_ he had done it to. The thought of the older man disappointed in him, of disdain and careful blankness pulling over his face like a caul now whenever Trevelyan walked into the rotunda—

_—you run—I chase—laughing—come back—_

Trevelyan swung his feet onto the cold floor. He was too much a mage to get overly sentimental about remnants of the Fade, but he could feel those elves in his blood, as real and dear as his own heartbeat. They had been in love and unafraid of time. They tasted every apple without ever fathoming it might be their last....that their world might die around them. It filled him with an overwhelming sadness and shame he could scarcely believe was only catching up with him now.

And he had wanted to share that with Solas! 

He sighed. Strange, that he still wanted to share that with Solas. 

A sharp knock startled him.

Tugging on his trousers, he padded down the stairs and stood beside the door. “Who goes?”

“It is I.”

Trevelyan’s heart thudded. He lowered the ward on his door and swung it open.

Speak of the Void. 

Solas stood on the landing with his hands behind his back. He did a once-over of Trevelyan’s night shirt. “I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Oh, no, I needed to get up anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, would you like to come in?"

“Actually, I was hoping we could go for a walk.” Solas lent him a smile. Not the thin, disdainful smile he reserved for fools, but not his full, warm smile either. “Do you still have the apple?”

“Not for lack of tempting me,” said Trevelyan, more at ease than he felt. “Why?”

Solas merely motioned for him to follow, and after dressing and gathering his staff Trevelyan did, the apple nestled safely in his satchel.

~

There was a grove not far outside Skyhold, below the snowline. It looked down the mountainside to where the river met the horizon. Solas led him to a clearing and invited him to sit with him in the itchy grass amidst the dandelions, side by side in the quiet of dawn.

Silence was usually easy between them, but Trevelyan couldn’t help but twist dandelion stalks into knots. If Solas truly was angry with him he wouldn’t drag him all the way out here, would he? He’d just give him a curt “we should get back to work” in the rotunda and that would be that, right?

“I have always enjoyed the view from this hill,” said Solas.

“You come here often?”

Solas made an affirmative noise.

“I bring my hart here some mornings,” said Trevelyan, clearing his throat after a few minutes. “She likes to stretch her legs. Doesn’t care for the stables much.”

“She is a proud creature out of her element. I imagine she misses the forests.”

“I….suppose she does.”

Solas hummed, his eyes half-lid and sleepy as he considered the dawn pouring red as wine into the river.

Trevelyan sighed. “Solas—”

“Inquisitor,” said the elf slowly. “It is quite alright. I brought you here to apologize.”

“You apologize to _me?_ ”

“I behaved deplorably. You were not trying to offend me. I rejected your… _gift_ ungracefully.”

Trevelyan’s head was swimming. This was the last thing he expected. Leave it to Solas to be the most polite man in Thedas. “I wasn’t thinking. I mean, if the apple really is from Arlathan—”

“Entirely possible. There are more relics lying around than you would think.”

“Then I wasn’t considering what it might mean to you."

“No, you weren’t," said Solas. "But your intentions were kind. You thought to give me a piece of the past. That is not an ignoble sentiment.”

“Still. I’m sorry.”

The rising sun melted the dew from the stalks of the grass swaying around them, a low mist chilling and dampening their skin.

“I would like to try it, if that’s all right with you,” said Solas at last.

“Really?” 

“In truth, it was fear more than anything that prompted my rudeness.”

That was a surprise. Solas so rarely seemed afraid of anything. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

“A great deal has been lost,” said Solas quietly. “Reminders of that are…not always kind.”

 _Quite the kick, eh?_  Xenon chuckled in the back of Trevelyan’s mind. “Sorry again.”

“Don’t be. Even a painful memory can be worth saving.” The elf’s gaze slid back to the horizon. “Here and now would be ideal.”

“I can leave—”

“You have been a good friend, Inquisitor,” said Solas, his words heavy with meaning. “Perhaps my only friend now outside the Fade. There is no shame in accepting your gift.” He smiled. “It is, after all, a beautiful morning.”

 _Yes_ , thought Trevelyan as he opened his satchel. _It is._

Solas unsealed the jar and removed the apple carefully. Then he lifted it to his lips, closed his eyes, and took a bite.

He was still for a long time. Juice ran over his fingers and wet the wool of his leggings. The sun rose over the treeline, warming their faces.

Solas took a shuddering breath. “That’s….” His lips thinned, and he quieted again.

Trevelyan reached, impulsively, to brush the dampness from his cheeks, but stayed his hand. Finally, Solas opened his eyes.

“Tart,” he said.

Trevelyan let out a startled laugh. Solas’ whole body sank as if he’d been drained.

“Are you all right?” asked Trevelyan.

“No,” said Solas. “But….thank you.” His lip trembled, then the emotion was gone and the mask back in place. “Thank you.”

“Do you think….do you think it’s really from Arlathan?”

“Perhaps,” said Solas. “More likely it is a copy. A memory of a memory.” His jaw tightened. "A ghost of once was.”

He stared down at the apple in his hand as if he wanted to keep it forever. As if any moment he might hurl it away.

“It is enough that it is real right now,” he said.

"What do you suppose happened to them?"

"A calamity of sorts. Not even the ancient elves were immune from profound errors in judgement." 

"Their world seemed beautiful. I wish there was more left of it,” said Trevelyan, honestly.

Solas hummed. "To study?"

"No, for people like you." 

There was a long silence. Then Solas turned, and offered the apple to Trevelyan.

"Are you certain?" Solas nodded, and after a moment's hesitation, Trevelyan took the apple and bit into it.

He felt more than before....or perhaps noticed more now that he was living it again. The way the elves spun magic from the air unashamed, the way pathways formed under their steps as they ran laughing down the paths, the way trees burned flamelike outside the window, lit with spirits like stars between their leaves.

More than that, he felt the dizzying, towering happiness and certainty of love, like a warm summer breeze on his face.

_—vhenan—_

_—I never want to die—_

He opened his eyes to find Solas sitting next to him in the grass of their very real world, close enough to feel his breath.

"Solas...." He pressed the apple back into his palm, and watched him take a bite. 

They passed the apple back and forth, the memory of a shared kiss between them, and Trevelyan trembled. He ached. It was unlike anything he had known, and perhaps unlike anything the world would ever know again.  

_—come back—_

Solas bit into the core and closed his eyes, inhaling deep. He did not shed tears again, but the expression he wore was resigned. He shared the fruit freely until it was gone and only the seeds remained.

They buried them in the hard earth beneath the trees. Then they dusted themselves off, and made their way home to Skyhold.

**Author's Note:**

> "I expressed my incredulity to the shop's assistant, who coldly noted that he did not like my implication. He insisted that every article in the Black Emporium was genuine—no fakes, imitations, or cheap knock-offs.
> 
> I must have appeared unconvinced, for the assistant narrowed his eyes at me and disappeared into the bowels of the shop, returning several minutes later. He removed the jar of pickled apples from its display case, and proceeded to carefully, reverentially, remove the wax seal from the lid of the jar.
> 
> I watched with fascination as the jar was opened, and a single, rosy apple pulled from it. It looked as if it had been picked just that day, at the peak of ripeness. With a paring knife, the assistant cut the tiniest sliver of flesh from the apple and presented it to me.
> 
> The flavor of that one small sliver was astonishing. It was as close to a perfect apple as ever there was. I was experiencing the essence of every apple ever eaten, and that ever will be eaten. When it was over, the sense of loss that filled me was sharp enough to move me to tears.
> 
> The rest of the apple was returned to the jar, which was then resealed. I paid five sovereigns for that single taste, and I believe I got the better part of the bargain."
> 
> —From the letters of Brother Ferdinand Genitivi to Sister Petrine, Chantry scholar


End file.
